


Favored Son

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: Fortunate Son [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-28
Updated: 2008-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is John/Sam incest from Dean's point of view. There is no way to sugarcoat that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favored Son

**Author's Note:**

> I consider this one of the most disturbing things I have written. Be aware that it is parental incest with possible dub-con, a shitload of angst, and perhaps a glossing over of the actual subject matter.
> 
> As always, I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm. This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.

_I mean, think about it. All he ever did was train you, boss you around. But Sam—Sam, he doted on. Sam, he loved. –Dream a Little Dream of Me_

_Sam, he’s clearly John’s favorite. Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you. –Devil’s Trap._

Dean’s always known it, even when he was little, before the fire. He can remember the looks on his parents’ faces, just barely. The kind of glowing smile when they saw Sam, picked him up, touched him. He was always the golden boy. Dean can remember how it was when he found out he was getting a new brother—how nobody had time to play with him anymore, how he had to go stay with Julie when Sammy was born. How he was there for almost a week and he was scared he was never coming home.

It’s not like Dean really minds so much, not anymore, but every now and then it comes up inside him when he thinks about how Sammy was always special like that. He’s jealous of Sam for the attention he gets from Dad, sure. Somehow Dad’s never given Dean that kind of attention, except for maybe before Sam was born. And he watches Dad touch Sam gently on the shoulder when he comes home, or ask him how school is going. When he calls on the phone he asks Dean if the doors and windows are salted, tells him to look after Sammy, and of course Dean’s jealous. Because the man is his father too, dammit, only he doesn’t seem to know it, or care. _Not when Sam’s around._

And Sam doesn’t seem to care either. It’s not like he invites it, not like he tries to please Dad the way Dean does. Dean follows orders, pitches in extra time, spends the money he hustles on weapons and car maintenance. Sam…doesn’t. He complains about the training, bitches when Dad leaves, every now and then uses the smart mouth he’s developed to talk back when Dad gives him an order. And sometimes Dad gets angry and smacks him across the face, but more often he’ll laugh because his son is brave enough and stubborn enough to fight him. He’ll stop and explain his reasoning to Sam then, and usually it’s enough to make Sam nod his agreement, come back with a witty observation or intelligent question, and leave Dad prouder than ever.

And yeah, Dean can’t watch that and say he isn’t jealous of his little brother. But he won’t say he _is_ jealous either, because Dad would be annoyed at him, acting like a kid, and Sam would be dumbfounded. Sam would ask whether _Dean_ would rather be the one who Dad gets mad at, whether Dean wants to hear their father screaming that he’s not good enough, feel Dad’s palm crack across his skin. And Sam wouldn’t understand when Dean said, _at least he’s touching you._

And of course Dean’s jealous of Dad too, because it’s obvious that Sam loves Dad despite it all. Because otherwise he wouldn’t get so mad when Dad left. If he didn’t care about keeping Dad safe, he wouldn’t ask so many damn questions. If he didn’t want Dad to tell him he was doing good, he wouldn’t leave his report cards on the kitchen table, just waiting for Dad to say something. And every time Dad leaves, Sam runs to hug him, and Dad lets him. He lets Sam be his little boy, almost like they were normal. Sam’s his son in a way that Dean will never be.

Dean’s a freak, he always has been. He doesn’t even fit in with his family, the only thing in the world that he cares about. And so maybe it hurts sometimes to see that Sam and Dad have this bond that he’s never gonna share. But usually he can just write it off as fucked-up and go back to ignoring it.

Which is probably why he isn’t surprised in Florida, when Sam and Dad don’t know he’s come back.

They don’t expect him to come in, turning the metal key slowly, quietly, worn-out by exhaustion. He sidesteps the salt lines silently, years of making sure they remained intact when Dad left. He’s not remembering the time Sam messed the lines up, not really, or how angry Dad was. Or how he forgave Sam afterwards, the way Dad held his little brother in his arms, brushing the tears away with a calloused thumb and telling him that it was all right.

Not the way he would have told Dean to quit his crying and be a man. No. Dean’s not thinking about that. He’s just heading to the couch, ready to catch up on his sleep, when he hears the noise and freezes. Sam is crying.

It doesn’t even take thirty seconds for him to be at the door, hyperalert, knife at the ready. It’s not shut all the way and he pushes it open—still very quiet—not knowing what the hell to expect.

Only then he sees them. Sam’s crying, all right, but it’s more sound than tears, and in between the ragged breathing and whimpers he moans, long and deep. Watching his face, Dean can tell that he’s about to explode, and he decides not to interrupt. He leaves as quietly as he came in, not bothering to shut the door to the bedroom where it was swung open.

He locks the hotel door behind him, pockets the old-fashioned key and goes for a run. He doesn’t know where he’s going and he doesn’t really care, caught up in the feeling of running, escaping, and he knows he sounds like some fucking chick _(or like Sam)_ but he’s past caring by now.

He’s running, picturing Sam crying. Gasping. Moaning. Stretched out across the bed, completely naked. And his father, the way the darker, leathery skin contrasted with Sam’s pale waist and ass and legs, the way Dad’s fingers gripped Sam’s hips. He doesn’t want to see it, but he does, over and over, as much as he tries to block it out, picture something else, anything else. He thinks about driving the Impala with the windows rolled down and the music turned up, thinks about Lisa and her legs wrapped around him, recites the _Rituale Romanum_ in his head. He stumbles over the words, because all he can see is the determination on Dad’s face, the need on Sam’s, the way their bodies moved in sync.

He runs until he gets dizzy and starts seeing pale flecks of light ahead of him, and then he ducks into the nearest doorway and makes his way to the bar. He orders a glass of water, too distracted to notice the strange looks he’s getting. And he sits and he sips it until he’s seeing straight again. And he orders tequila, producing his ID without even bothering to think up a smart remark. He doesn’t flirt with the bartender, a cute brunette in a pink tube top. He doesn’t say anything at all, just sits there trying to process everything. And a couple of shots later, he thinks he knows what he’s supposed to do. And that’s nothing.

It’s fucked-up and he knows it but somehow a tiny little part of him is glad. Because maybe Dad and Sam love each other a way they’ll never love him, but he’s starting to think that’s a good thing.

He pushes that to the back of his mind, locks it away with the sight of his dad and brother. He’s not going to argue with it, not going to let them know he knows. He’s not even going to think about it.

He pays with a fake credit card and begins the slow walk back to the hotel. By the time he gets there, things will be normal. They’ll pack up and get the fuck out of this town in the morning. Tonight, he’ll sleep on the couch.


End file.
